


Come to Morning

by ancalime8301



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Sailing To Valinor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2003-04-29
Updated: 2009-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:34:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29910801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancalime8301/pseuds/ancalime8301
Summary: The Ringbearers were granted the gift of passing into the West.  But who ever said the voyage would be easy?"For a while they stood there, like men on the edge of a sleep where nightmare lurks, holding it off, though they know that they can only come to morning through the shadows."-'The Passage of the Marshes,' _The Two Towers_





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> No idea how soon next chapter will be able to be up. This fic *will* be long, and it *will* be angsty with lots of Frodo-suffering. ;) I also want to achieve a certain tone throughout, so it'll take me longer than usual for updates.

_Prologue_

"I'm not feeling well."

That simple phrase marked the beginning of a precipitous decline in the health of the former Ringbearer. And to think it all started as a bit of seasickness. Elrond had anticipated that, and came prepared with herbal teas to ease the nausea. But they only worked for so long. Around midday on the sixth day, the hobbit begged leave to return to his quarters, uttering that fateful phrase, and proclaiming he just needed a little rest. Most of the elven passengers thought nothing of Frodo's retreat to his room; the Secondborn were vulnerable to many ills of which they knew nothing. Even those who knew him better were not too concerned. Seasickness was to be expected in a mortal, especially among hobbits, whose kind often shunned any contact with bodies of water. And the sea was different than any lake or river, it held a motion all its own. But soon the halfling had more than nausea to overcome.

Gandalf lightly flicked his thumb across the back of the slim, cold hand enveloped in his own, an unconscious gesture of soothing and encouragement. The hand was limp, its owner too spent to even feebly clutch the larger hand enfolding his. The entire arm was lifeless and made it feel as if Gandalf were holding the arm of a corpse. On the other side of Frodo, sitting on the bed next to his cousin and heir, Bilbo held the slightly warmer right hand, though the slight warmth imparted no strength; this arm too was lifeless. The only sign of life from the prone hobbit on the bed was the unsteady rise and fall of his chest as air passed unevenly in and out, and the occasional movement of eyes behind eyelids.

In the ponderous silence of the sick room, Gandalf could clearly see in his mind's eye two other situations when he had sat thus. Both were times of fear and doubt as the life of this small being dangled by a thread. But against all odds, the doughty hobbit survived his ordeals and continued in life. This time too the outcome was uncertain. He looked as bad now as he had that second time, though Gandalf wouldn't have thought it possible. True, he was not covered in the dust and ash of Mordor, but his physical condition had deteriorated until he once again looked like the starved skeleton the eagles had plucked from Mount Doom. He'd been nearly dead then, as he was now, but this time was different than the others before.

This time, the one he called for in his delirium was nowhere near, and could not come to comfort him. The one who could calm him in his deepest sleep just by his mere presence had been left behind, left to live his life in the Shire until the time came when he too would cross over the Sea. This time, Samwise was not there to comfort his master, not there to give him strength as only he could. Would that alone doom Frodo in this seemingly hopeless situation? Gandalf did not know.

At least Frodo was sleeping peacefully, his debilitating nightmares banished for now by Galadriel having poured all her strength and warmth and light into him, buoying his strength and fighting back the darkness so he could rest. Gandalf's Elven companions were deep into open-eyed sleep, regaining what energy they could before being called upon again to aid the stricken hobbit. But they were all getting weaker, their three Rings of little help, having lost most of their power already, and the time afforded to them to recuperate was growing shorter and shorter.

~~~~~

_Chapter 1_

_September 29, 1421 S.R._

The ship had been sailing for hours. Night had fallen, the wind had strengthened, and a light mist began to fall; still the lone figure stood at the stern, looking back at all he had left behind though all he could physically see was the choppy waters of the ship's wake.

"They will not forget you," came a familiar voice from behind and above him.

He sighed raggedly as a lone tear slipped down his cheek. "I know... I just wish there was another way. I'm going to miss so much, miss them so much..." he broke off, unable, or unwilling, to continue. He leaned on the railing and continued to gaze morosely at the water. "Maybe I shouldn't have come."

Gandalf knelt next to him and imitated his stance, looking back toward the rapidly-receding shores of Middle-Earth. They remained in contemplative silence for many minutes. "Would you have been able to deal with the consequences, had you stayed?" Gandalf gently asked.

"At least I would be there," he rejoined bitterly. "At least I would be there for Pip's coming-of-age, Sam becoming Mayor, Merry becoming Master of Buckland, Pip becoming Thain, Merry and Pip getting married; I would see all of their children, ... I will never meet my cousins' wives! I'll never see my nieces and nephews! I won't see the rest of Sam's children!"

He gestured emphatically, punctuating each point with a wave of his hand. He finally turned and faced Gandalf, anger raging in his eyes. "I might get to see Sam again, if he decides to sail; but it'll be who knows how many years until that happens, and even then he may decide to stay in the Shire! But I. will. NEVER. see. Merry. or. Pippin. ever. again!" He drew closer to Gandalf with each word, until they were staring nose-to-nose.

Unabashed by Frodo's anger, Gandalf calmly responded, "Yes, you will be missing all of those good things." Frodo began to turn away in despair; Gandalf stopped him with a word, "But," and a gentle hand on his sleeve. He waited until Frodo faced him again before continuing. "You are forgetting what else you would've experienced had you stayed." He lightly patted Frodo's left shoulder. "This-and the other-would continue to bother you every year. And if what has happened so far is any indication, it would continue to grow worse, though how bad it would become no one can guess. But eventually, and I think you've realized this, it would probably kill you." Frodo hung his head, confirming he had also come to that conclusion. "And while coming West is not a guarantee that all your pains will be healed, it is our hope they will at least be bearable.

"You know the good things you will be missing; have you considered why or how you know this?" Frodo raised his head and shot him a questioning look. "The Valar know how hard it is for you to leave your home in search of peace and healing; they have gifted you this knowledge so you would be assured of their well-being even in your absence. Did you think you'd still have known this if you decided to stay in the Shire?"

Frodo shrugged and Gandalf shook his head in response. "No, Frodo; all you would know for certain is the reawakening of your wounds every March and October. Would you really have wanted to live like that?" Gandalf looked at him with pity in his eyes as Frodo digested this new information. "Knowing you would be ill, fearing that *this* time might be the time it finally overwhelms you? How would you have told that to Samwise, to Rose, to their children?"

Frodo visibly winced as he imagined Sam's reaction and the despair he would feel in knowing there was nothing he could do to make Frodo well again, nothing he could do to delay the inevitable. Another tear snaked itself down Frodo's cheek as he considered the strain his slow death would have put on Sam and his small family, with Sam doing everything he could for Frodo, probably to the neglect of his wife and child. Yes, that was one of several reasons that finally convinced Frodo to sail, but that knowledge didn't make the pain of parting any less.

He did not want to leave the Shire; it was still his home though he was no longer able to enjoy it as he once did. His biggest desire on the Quest was to just go home and be rid of the whole business. That was still his wish-that none of it had happened-but he knew it was useless; wishing can't change the past. But there was still a chance for him to be able to live in spite of the past by sailing West. No, it was not a sure thing...

He would miss Sam, but he would be with Bilbo when he died, and if he could just hold on long enough, he would be reunited with Sam and could die content. He would not hope for any more, for hopes fail. He had learned long ago that hoping only made it that much harder to accept reality. Frodo was almost certain Sam would sail eventually, but that bit of doubt nagged at him, making him question whether he really knew or was just wishing for something that wouldn't come true.

Finally Frodo sighed and admitted, "Yes, I know. It would have been very difficult. That was what finally made up my mind. Still I can't help but wonder if this is truly the right decision."

Gandalf nodded in agreement. "That applies to any choice, from deciding your purpose in life to deciding whether to have butter or jam on your toast for breakfast." Frodo noted that Gandalf didn't mention the Ring, though he would easily say his decision to leave the Shire with It was the biggest decision of his life. Gandalf continued, "Come. It is beginning to rain harder and I'm sure you're hungry. Your stomach is probably still used to Rosie's strict hobbit meal schedule, though you'll find elves are much more laid back about such things as mealtimes.

"In fact," he chuckled, "I think they would prefer to sing and dream all day rather than worry about minor issues such as food, now that they are finally headed to the Uttermost West." Frodo smiled wryly. With Gandalf's words, he had noticed how wet he'd become while standing there; food he could do without, though perhaps the uneasy feeling in his stomach would be eased by a cup of tea and maybe some bread or a bit of soup.

Gandalf led the way below deck, opening a hatch at the base of the large mast to reveal a staircase spiraling around the mast down into the depths of the ship. Candles on the outer edge of the staircase illuminated delicated leaf-shaped stairs, each leaf resembling that of a beech tree, somewhat narrow at the base before widening and then tapering off to the tip. The candles rested on the point of each leaf; the leaves were set at a shallow angle, comfortably accommodating the shorter hobbit stride. Frodo doubted the design was specifically for the hobbits; more likely it was to keep the elves from disgracing themselves by stumbling on their long garments as they glide between decks. He was reminded of Lothlorien and the staircases gracefully flowing up and around the stately mallorns.

So caught up was he in admiring the leaves and remembering the beauty of Lothlorien that he would have descended to the very bottom of the ship without noticing, had Gandalf not gently stopped him when they reached the first deck. He stepped off into a large open room. The only wall on the entire deck was behind him, enclosing the rear third of the deck, forming a room which he guessed correctly to be the kitchen, judging from the long buffet tables against the wall.

Straight in front of him, at the prow of the ship, was a large stone hearth, a fire blazing merrily in its confines, the smoke escaping out two round vents set high in the wall, near the ceiling. Scattered throughout the open area were small stools and large cushions, some set in groups convenient for quiet conversation, others set in a rough semicircle closer to the fire. Elves occupied many of the seats, and others were standing, though there was room for plenty more.

Sweet music filled the air, enfolding him in a warm cloak of comfort and calm. Though he could not immediately understand the elvish being sung, he did not care to translate it, preferring instead to close his eyes and let it flow through his being, allowing the delicate sound to sweep him away to the heights of beauty and serenity.

~~~~~

Frodo leaned back against the wall -the hull of the ship, he reminded himself- and contentedly absorbed the scene around him. He had eaten some food at Bilbo's urging, though he'd found it difficult to choose what to have from the sumptuous fare available. There was all manner of sliced fruits, cubed cheeses, and warm, soft breads. He also saw a delicate broth soup to dip the bread into, and was amused to find some lembas, though he refrained from taking any. They were as yet too familiar to fully enjoy. Pitchers of cool water, pots of tea, and a few flasks of miruvor supplied the beverage for the informal meal; Frodo took some miruvor, remembering its pleasant effects.

He'd only taken small portions of a few things, not being extremely hungry-a warm roll, a bit of soup. Thankfully, the miruvor seemed to settle his stomach in addition to radiating warmth throughout his body. Now satisfied, he watched and listened to everything from his perch on the cushion next to Bilbo. The cushions were quite large by hobbit standards; two laid next to one another could easily serve as a bed, though Frodo was not yet tired enough to make that use necessary.

Enchanted by the melodies of instrument and voice, he lost all knowledge of the passage of time until he noticed Bilbo beginning to nod next to him. The elderly hobbit had succeeded in remaining awake for several hours, but time and age finally gained the upper hand. Frodo took pity on his cousin and helped him up so he could go to bed, though the other hobbit had to wake up enough to direct him to their rooms, as Frodo had not yet been down to that part of the ship. Their rooms were on the deck immediately below the 'Hall of Fire,' almost at the end of a long corridor stretching the length of the ship, lit every couple of feet by oil lamps in elegant sconces.

While the doors were elven-size, the spare furnishings of each room were scaled down to suit a hobbit, though the bed was still rather large. After making sure Bilbo was snugly tucked in bed, his things put away in the chest against the wall, Frodo retired to his adjoining room. He quickly stowed away his own things in his chest, and briefly wondered why all of the furniture -the chest, the bed, the small table between the bed and the hull, and the larger table in the corner next to the door- were bolted to the floor, but decided it didn't really matter. The music he had heard still lingered in his ears, and he quickly fell into slumber, the remembered melodies lulling him into a blissfully peaceful rest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ringbearers were granted the gift of passing into the West. But who ever said the voyage would be easy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No idea how soon next chapter will be able to be up. This fic *will* be long, and it *will* be angsty with lots of Frodo-suffering.
> 
> And, the passage enclosed in the asterisks (*) are from FotR, p. 227. This is intended as a book-verse tale, so you can expect to see scattered passages from LotR, which will always be credited. :)
> 
> [**tangelian**](https://tangelian.livejournal.com/) has had such a major role in brainstorming and development that I must acknowledge her as co-writer of this chapter. :) And [**febobe**](https://febobe.livejournal.com/) unknowingly assisted with a few word choice issues.

Frodo slowly awoke to a growing sense of discomfort. Something just didn't feel right, but he didn't know what. He heard the creaking and groaning of timbers and remembered being on the Elven ship sailing West. Opening his eyes, Frodo tried to figure out why he felt so uncomfortable. His somewhat hobbit-scaled sleeping quarters were very dimly lit by a small oil lamp, a lamp that was swinging crazily as the ship rocked back and forth. Watching the lamp's undulations for a moment, Frodo swallowed hard against steadily-increasing waves of dizziness and tried to turn his mind to something other than the desire to get rid of what little he'd eaten before going to bed. He closed his eyes and brought to mind the Shire's green rolling hills . . . firm ground . . . rich earth . . .

But his envisionings of solid footing only made his mind more acutely aware that his body was not on stable ground. This difference of opinion between mind and body only made the nausea worse, stressing the need for him to find some vessel to contain what he was certain would be forthcoming.

He lurched from bed, trying to locate something, anything, that would serve. The room continued its dizzying movements; Frodo stumbled to his knees in front of the chamber pot just in time. He was rather thankful he'd only had a small repast; in almost no time at all, there was nothing left in his stomach to expel.

If he'd hoped the dizziness would pass once he'd retched, he was soon proven wrong. He tried to stand up to return to bed, but his wobbly legs refused to support him on the shifting deck. He was forced to resort to crawling on hands and knees back over to his bed, pushing the chamber pot ahead of him, just in case he needed it again.

It took him several tries to climb into bed without being thrown to the ground by an unexpected tilt of the floor. Once successfully in bed, Frodo closed his eyes and tried to find equilibrium, but he just felt as if he was spinning off into numerous different directions. Clutching the edges of his mattress lest the bed betray him to the floor yet again, Frodo tried desperately to fall asleep.

~~~~

As the hour grew late, the mournful melodies of the Hall gave way to contemplative silence. The fire burned low and elves began to trickle away, bound for their cabins or the upper deck to gaze upon the innumerable stars of the now-clear night. Elrond remained in his place of honor near the fire long after the Hall had emptied, considering all he had left behind and weighing it against that to which he was bound. Eventually he decided to retire to his cabin; staring at the stars, however appealing the idea may sound, would only serve to remind him of the Evenstar that remained in Middle-Earth, now doomed to die as human rather than elven-kind. As Elrond stood, a small, forgotten flask tumbled to the floor from where it had lain in his lap. He picked it up, remembering as he did so what he had intended to do with it.

Elrond swept quickly down the stairs, the movement of air in his passing extinguishing many of the candles. The elf lord paid them no heed, intent on his destination. As he strode down the corridor of the second deck, he stretched out his senses and inwardly berated himself when he felt queasy misery radiating from the hobbit. Reaching the door he carefully opened it and closed it behind him, so as not to awaken the seemingly sleeping occupant. Frodo was curled on his side, facing the door, both hands tightly gripping the edge of the mattress. His eyes opened as Elrond approached, though he did not appear to be fully awake or aware. Elrond noted the contents of the chamber pot and felt ashamed, knowing he could have -and indeed should have- prevented this. He laid a hand on Frodo's shoulder and bent down so his eyes were closer to the hobbit's. "Forgive me, Frodo. I neglected to give you this," he held up the flask, "before you retired."

"Wha' is i'?" Frodo mumbled as Elrond's hand guided him onto his back and helped him sit up slightly so he could swallow without choking.

"A remedy for you and Bilbo- I anticipated the sea journey would not agree with you at first. I gave some to Bilbo soon after we departed, but you were still on deck and I did not wish to disturb you."

Frodo nodded and, more awake now, assured him, "I'm all right. It's not that bad."

Though these words contradicted what Elrond knew to be the case, he said nothing and handed Frodo the flask. Frodo cautiously sipped at first, afraid it would be quite bitter or otherwise disagreeable, but when he was greeted by the familiar taste of ginger -though spiced with something he could not identify- he drank more readily. Elrond reclaimed the flask after a few swallows and Frodo started to lie back down.

Frodo was not quite sure how it happened, but the next thing he was aware of was Elrond supporting him with one arm and holding the chamber pot with the other. When Frodo finished bringing the tea back up, Elrond stepped away for a moment and returned with a glass of water, which Frodo sipped as Elrond wiped his face with cool, damp fabric -Lord Elrond's sleeve, dipped into the water for want of any other cloth. Elrond pressed Frodo to again sip from the flask, confident it would have a chance to work this time. He gently helped the hobbit get comfortable, and soon Frodo was fast asleep.

Elrond did not leave immediately, preferring instead to watch over his small charge for a time. Frodo slept peacefully, but peaceful were not Elrond's thoughts. 'He will be forced to endure much more than a touch of sea illness before his journey is over.' This he had foreseen. But hidden from him was that journey's destination: peace and healing in the uttermost West . . . or rest through the gift of Iluvatar.

~~~~

When Frodo next awoke, the grey light seeping in the small porthole was lighter, the small oil lamp hung docilely, and Elrond was no longer there. He climbed unsteadily down from the bed, crossed the room, and poured some water from the pitcher into the basin, splashing the refreshing liquid on his face with a sigh. Feeling a bit better after the wash, he dug through the chest for a set of clothes.

He had just finished dressing when there was a knock upon the door. "Are you awake, my lad?" Bilbo's familiar voice inquired from his side of their shared door. Frodo smiled to himself -it seemed some things never changed- before opening the door to see Bilbo beaming at him. "Ah, there you are! I hope you slept well."

Stifling a yawn, Frodo answered, "Well enough, Bilbo. Did you want to get some breakfast?" He did, so the pair went in search of food. Bilbo ate quite happily from his loaded plate, but Frodo took only some bread and tea. While his stomach had improved from the night before, it was still uneasy and he had no desire to repeat the experience.

Elves came and went as they ate, and some of them Frodo thought he recognized from the night before. Gandalf came to join them after a bit, and the day passed most pleasantly, but for Frodo's continuing trouble with keeping his stomach where it belonged. Elrond assured him it was to be expected, and as Frodo retired to bed that night, the elven lord promised they would try a few additional remedies on the morrow.

However, contrary to traditional sea-faring wisdom, remaining on deck with an eye on the horizon did nothing to curb Frodo's nausea, and the cold drizzle and brooding grey clouds made time out-of-doors unpleasant at best for all but the adventurous. Instead, he preferred to sit in the Hall of Fire where the songs and other entertainment could provide some distraction from his persistent discomfort. Bilbo too spent his waking hours there, though he had a tendency to nod off every so often.

And so they spent their days as the Elves settled into a routine of their own, passing time in song or standing deep in thought, gazing Westward in spite of the rain. Some conversed with the two hobbits out of friendliness and curiosity about the privileged Secondborn accompanying them to the Blessed Realm. Elrond paid close heed to the hobbits, administering careful doses of the remedy, just enough to be mostly effective without wasting any of the precious mixture, ever mindful of his limited supplies and the unknown duration of their voyage.

Thus it was most fortunate that the elder hobbit, passing much time in sleep, did not require much aid, leaving it to be consumed by the other, who proved to need it desperately. Even with such aid he could barely stomach the thought of food, and eagerly sought all possible diversions from the maddening malady. He spent much time conversing with Gandalf, coaxing the wizard to tell of his visit to Tom Bombadil and the fair Lady Goldberry, and many other tales besides. When the wizard grew weary of speaking, both would instead listen to the Elves' fair speech and song, and speak with Bilbo when he roused. Frodo heard many songs in that manner; some he recognized from Rivendell or Lothlorien, but the majority were unfamiliar. Mostly unbeknownst to him, Lord Elrond and Gandalf were keeping close watch on him as the days began to pass and their first week at sea drew toward its close. To their relief, the sea illness remained his only complaint, though the elven lord remained concerned about the hobbit's growing weakness and its implications if what he feared came to pass.

~~~~

By the fifth day Frodo was restless and growing weary of the journey. He prowled about the ship, going from top to bottom and back again. Spotting Gandalf on the top deck about mid-afternoon, the hobbit joined the wizard at the rail. "How much longer will it be?" he asked without preamble.

Gandalf looked down at him. "I could not say, for I do not know."

Puzzled, Frodo asked, "But didn't you sail to Middle-Earth in the first place?"

The wizard chuckled. "I did, indeed. But that was many years ago, and time passes differently on the Road than what you are accustomed to."

The hobbit sighed and gazed out over the choppy waves. "Will I ever get used to this? I can't eat, I can barely sleep... I might as well be back in Mordor for all the good this is doing me."

"Frodo." The wizard's voice was stern as he knelt and turned the hobbit to face him. "Do not say such a thing. You know very well you would not want to return there."

Frodo hung his head. "I know. This is just... very difficult."

"Nothing worth having is easy to gain," he answered kindly. A small smile ghosted across Frodo's face as he met Gandalf's eyes again. Gandalf gazed carefully into the hobbit's face, seeing many warring emotions there: discomfort, despair, confusion, hope... fear.

"Gandalf? Will this be worth it?" the timid voice ventured at length.

*I hope so, for your sake.* He swallowed his first thought and said instead, "I cannot imagine that the Valar would grant you passage and fail to grant you that which you seek." The smile reappeared, slightly more confident. "Now, let's go back belowdecks, shall we? I do believe the rain is getting heavier."

~~~~

That evening Frodo sat, listening to the ever-present songs of the Elves, with a greater measure of peace and assurance than before. His conversation with Gandalf, though short, put to rest some of the overriding fears that arose as he cynically mused about the journey thus far. His inability to rest here led into the dread that the same would be true when they reached their destination -and then this would have been for naught.

Firmly reigning in his wandering thoughts, Frodo turned his full attention to simply appreciating the music. Closing his eyes, he rested his head on Bilbo's shoulder. Bilbo chuckled a bit and patted his knee comfortingly, and he opened his eyes briefly to smile at his uncle. Settling down, he sat back and opened his ears to truly listen to that which was sung.

*The beauty of the melodies and of the interwoven words in elven-tongues, even though he understood them little, held him in a spell, as soon as he began to attend to them. Almost it seemed that the words took shape, and visions of far lands and bright things that he had never yet imagined opened out before him; the firelit hall became like a golden mist above seas of foam that sighed upon the margins of the world. Then the enchantment became more and more dreamlike; it became part of the throbbing air around him, and it drenched and drowned him. Swiftly he sank under its shining weight into a deep realm of sleep.*

The hour was growing late when Bilbo's eyelids also became heavy and he allowed them to drop closed, resting his head against Frodo's as he too sank into sleep. When he next became aware, there was a figure seated before him. "'ullo, Elrond," he said sleepily, starting to stretch but then stopping when he remembered his predicament. Instead, he reached up to brush a few stray locks from his nephew's peacefully sleeping face.

"How are you faring, my friend?" Elrond inquired quietly.

"Well enough," the old hobbit replied. "But the sea doesn't seem to agree with Frodo."

"No, indeed, but I have been tending him carefully," the elf assured him.

"Good." He regarded Frodo with sadness as he lightly stroked his face. "He's been through so much already," he murmured, mostly to himself. Pulling himself from his reverie, he asked, "Elrond, would you move him so I can get up? I've been sitting in one place for far too long."

"Of course." Elrond gently and carefully lifted the sleeping hobbit, embracing him close as he stood with his burden. Bilbo pulled himself to his feet with a grunt and the popping of joints. "And now to bed?" the elf lord mildly asked the hobbit.

"Yes, yes, now to bed," he replied briskly as he stiffly walked toward the stairs. Upon reaching the hallway below, Bilbo scratched his head and commented, "I could use a bath."

Elrond caught the hint. "Shall I have a tub put in your room in the morning?"

"That would be lovely." He paused, then added, "I'm sure Frodo-lad will want one, too."

"Two tubs it is," Elrond confirmed.

"Thank you. Good night!" Bilbo called as he disappeared into his cabin and closed the door.

Elrond suppressed a chuckle as he carried Frodo into his room, using one arm to pull down the sheet and quilts before laying the hobbit down. As he divested Frodo of his waistcoat and braces, he was displeased by the dehydrated appearance of the hobbit's skin. He would need to stress once again the importance of water, from the looks of it.

But for now he would allow him his much-needed rest. The elf lord tucked the hobbit under the coverings and stepped back, stowing the waistcoat and braces in the trunk before closing the door softly behind him.

~~~~

Frodo sat up with a lurch, his head pounding and his mouth dry. He had to close his eyes against the dizziness that motion evoked, moaning a bit as he put one hand to his face, as if keeping the pain from spilling forth. His other hand wound itself in the covers to keep himself balanced as he fought to regain his equilibrium. When he ventured to open his eyes again, he made the mistake of looking at the lamp, which was once again swinging merrily. This brought two realizations: he had somehow been returned to his room, and he badly needed to find the chamberpot. Mercifully it was still under the edge of the bed, so he did not have to hold back long.

Seeing dinner a second time was getting to be normal, he reflected wryly while he crouched, hunched over the pot. All attempts at humor vanished when it began, and by the end he was shaking and unable to raise his head from where his forehead rested on the pot's edge. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, belatedly realizing he was still in his day clothes, and he wondered why the person who'd brought him to his room didn't change his clothes as well.

'Oh, that's a good one,' he inwardly berated himself. 'It's not enough that they bring you to your bed, but they have to dress you as well? You're not a child, though you seem to enjoy acting like one. Elrond and Gandalf have had to care for you like a faunt ever since you set sail, minding you rather than enjoying the voyage they've waited so long to take!' The roiling in his stomach seemed to echo the uneasiness in his thoughts and he retched repeatedly. He gasped for breath as he clutched the pot closer, willing the world to stop its infernal rocking, and yearning for someone, anyone, to come put him out of his misery.

Sam. The thought rose unbidden to his mind. Sam always knew exactly what to do to make him feel better. 'Ah, but you've gone and left him behind, and who's to say he isn't relieved? He doesn't have to care for an unappreciative, selfish hobbit anymore and can look to his family as he should have been doing all along. But instead, he and Rose always saw to your needs first, even before those of their own babe.' The voice was taunting, mocking now. He could only moan in response, wishing to cover his ears but fearful of loosening his grip on the pot he used as his support. The accusations continued unabated as he huddled under the weight of them, feeling years of unspoken grief and guilt dropping upon his head all at once, and bringing the walls in upon him as well. His nausea multiplied tenfold and his head throbbed until he felt he would come apart from the strain.

Whether he passed out or fell into an uneasy slumber he wasn't sure, but he was brought out of his stupor by the sound of gentle knocking on ... his? -no, Bilbo's- door. He stood unsteadily and had made it over to the washstand before there was a knock on his door. "Come in," he called hoarsely and, to his bewilderment, an elf entered, bearing a washtub, followed by several more elves carrying steaming jugs of water. They carried out their tasks mutely and exited just as silently, leaving a warm tub of water, some soaps, and towels on his floor. He wasn't going to question why it appeared, for he certainly needed to bathe -even he could tell he stank of sweat and other things- so he peeled off his stiff clothes and sank into the water with a grateful sigh. The tub was small, so he'd have to get out in order to wash his hair, but the warm water was most delightful.

It was with reluctance that he finally climbed out, wrapped a towel around himself, and knelt beside the tub to wash his hair. He tried not to notice how much the water sloshed even without him in it, but once he saw that, he could not keep his eyes away. And going almost upside down to put his head underwater did not help matters. He vowed not to let himself get sick again, and was only successful at it by focusing his thoughts on getting a cup of tea... or miruvor... or anything that would help.

When he went up to the first deck, he found Bilbo, Gandalf, Elrond, and only a few other elves. After he fetched that warm cup of tea he'd thought about, he joined Bilbo, Gandalf, and Elrond in sitting on the floor along the side. Gandalf greeted him, "You're looking rather pale this morning, my dear hobbit. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he gritted out between gulps of tea. "The waves just seem rougher today." As if to agree with his statement, the deck abruptly titled steeply, then evened out again.

"The sea is more turbulent this morning," Gandalf agreed. "It seems we are coming up on a storm, so I fear it will grow worse before it becomes better."

"W-worse?" Frodo gasped, tightly closing his eyes and turning almost green at the thought. How could it be worse than this?

When he opened his eyes again, Elrond handed him a mug. "You need to drink more water. You have not been getting enough."

Frodo accepted the mug in exchange for his empty teacup even as he retorted, "Forgive me, Lord Elrond, but it is difficult to get enough when everything insists on coming back up."

Elrond raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. But you should still try."

As the morning passed by, the sea did indeed beome more turbulent and Frodo grew more uncomfortable in spite of further doses from Elrond's depleted flask. Around midday he finally begged his leave, saying, "I'm not feeling well."

The other three silently watched him go belowdecks. "You'll look in on him later, won't you?" Bilbo asked Elrond worriedly.

"Of course."


	3. Come to Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ringbearers were granted the gift of passing into the West. But who ever said the voyage would be easy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have every intention of completing this fic. It's just taking me years, is all... perhaps by the time I'm done, it'll be the longest-running WIP or something. ;)

Bilbo knocked on the door separating his and Frodo's rooms. "Frodo? Breakfast!" No answer. He knocked again, a little harder. "Frodo! Come on, lad!" Still no response. He eased the door open a bit and poked his head in. Frodo was, indeed, still in bed, lying on his side and facing away from the door.

Bilbo sighed, slightly amused. He was beginning to wonder if his cousin was becoming a slug-a-bed, conveniently forgetting for the moment that he himself had been prone to many naps until he began feeling more awake while on this voyage. "Frodo," he called again, cheerfully, as he approached the bed.

When there was still not even a twitch from Frodo, Bilbo began to be concerned; it was usually not this difficult to wake him. Bilbo put his hand on Frodo's shoulder to gently shake him awake, eliciting a gasp of pain from his nephew. Bilbo jerked his hand back, surprised not only by Frodo's reaction but also by the coldness of Frodo's shoulder.

Now very concerned, Bilbo went around to the other side of the large bed and asked, "Frodo, what's wrong?" as he surveyed the other hobbit.

Frodo's eyes were open, staring off into space at something only he could see, and clouded with pain and memories. His right hand tightly gripped Arwen's jewel as if hanging on for dear life. He whispered faintly, "I am wounded, wounded; it will never really heal."

"Oh, my dear boy," Bilbo sighed, his eyes filling with tears as he stroked Frodo's cheek.

Frodo's eyes fluttered closed and he seemed to lean into Bilbo's caress. Bilbo was deeply grieved to see Frodo suffering so, and he cursed himself, not for the first time, for ever having picked up that smooth metal band from the floor of Gollum's cave.

For a moment, Bilbo dithered between staying with Frodo and going to fetch Elrond. He decided on the latter, for Frodo would no doubt benefit from a healer's attention. He hurried as fast as he could with his shaky legs and cane, and found Elrond on the first deck, having a small repast with Gandalf. Both listened intently to Bilbo's concern for Frodo, and wordlessly rose to accompany him to Frodo's cabin. Gandalf sought to soothe Bilbo, saying, "Elrond and I both looked in on Frodo during the night and he was resting peacefully, so whatever this fit may be he has not been suffering long."

Frodo had come out of the fit by the time Bilbo returned, and was awake enough to protest when he saw Gandalf and Elrond. "I don't know what you saw, Bilbo, but I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You were in a fit and your arm is cold," Bilbo insisted, touching Frodo's cheek tenderly. "I want to help you, my boy."

"You can't. Evidently nothing can. I'd hoped this wouldn't happen now that we've sailed," Frodo said morosely with a touch of bitterness.

"We have not yet departed the circles of this world to enter the influence of the Blessed Land. It is not unexpected that the hurts and ills you suffered in Middle-Earth haunt you still." Elrond said in an attempt to reassure them both.

"Is there anything that can be done for him now?" Bilbo asked anxiously.

"Rest and something warm on his shoulder would be best for now, unless Frodo needs anything else to be comfortable," Elrond replied, looking to Frodo.

Frodo shook his head slightly. "That is all I need for now. Bilbo, please do not worry on my account. I will feel more myself tomorrow."

Gandalf spoke up. "Come, Bilbo, let us leave Lord Elrond to do what he does best. I believe it is well past time for your breakfast."

"What? Oh, yes. I am rather hungry, now that you mention it. Frodo, are you certain you will be all right?"

"Go, uncle. I will send for you if I need you," Frodo said firmly.

Gandalf ushered Bilbo out, closing the door behind them and leaving Frodo and Elrond alone. Frodo rolled himself onto his back, wincing as his left shoulder pressed into the mattress. Elrond watched him from the foot of the bed, his expression unreadable. "You are not as confident about your recovery as you would have Bilbo believe," he noted.

"This feels different from the other times, somehow," Frodo acknowledged. "But I wasn't wholly well before this struck, so that may be the difference."

"It is possible," Elrond agreed, moving to Frodo's left side and unbuttoning his nightshirt to expose the scarred shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired, mostly. The wound aches, and my arm and side are cold."

"Any nausea?" Elrond asked, gently palpating Frodo's shoulder. The scar's appearance was unchanged, but the areas surrounding it were markedly cooler to the touch.

"No more than usual," Frodo replied through gritted teeth. As gentle as the Elven lord's fingers were, the touches were transforming the ache into a stabbing pain.

"Can you move your arm and hand?"

"Yes, but they feel sluggish." Frodo slowly clenched and unclenched his hand to demonstrate.

"Good. Retaining movement in the arm, however slow, is an encouraging sign." There was a light tap on the door, and Elrond opened it to admit a female elf bearing a tray with a bowl of steaming water, a pile of cloths, and a teapot in a cozy. She placed the items on the table near the door and left as silently as she'd entered. Elrond poured a cup of the tea first and held it out to Frodo, who pushed himself upright enough to drink without spilling or choking. "Willowbark for the pain," Elrond explained.

Frodo drank; he expected it to be bitter, but Elrond must have slipped some honey into it, for it was quite good. Elrond wetted a number of the cloths and wrung them out firmly so they were warm but not dripping. When Frodo laid back down, Elrond arranged the cloths over his shoulder, arm, and side, then pulled the sheet and blanket over them. "Does that help?"

Frodo sighed with relief. "Yes, well enough."

"Do you need anything else before I let you sleep?"

"No, thank you."

"We will allow you to rest as long as you like, and will check on you periodically. Call out if you have need of anything; Gandalf or I will always be near," Elrond said as he smoothed Frodo's covers and made sure he seemed comfortable.

"You are too kind," Frodo murmured sleepily.

'Not at all,' Elrond thought but did not say, for the hobbit was already near sleep. Once Frodo was peacefully resting, Elrond left the room, letting the door remain open slightly so they could hear him if he called.

~~~~

Frodo slept for much of the day; Elrond stole into the room every so often to refresh the warm cloths, but Frodo never stirred beneath his touch. While Frodo passed into uneasy dreams a few times, he was recovered enough by evening to rise, dress, and go up to dinner. He looked pale and drawn and moved stiffly, but he was out of bed, and Frodo considered that accomplishment enough.

Bilbo was overjoyed to see him up and about, and eagerly tried to ply him with food. Frodo had to refuse most of Bilbo's urgings -his appetite remained poor- but his refusals were with good humor so Bilbo did not take offense. Frodo retired back to his room not long after he finished eating his small amounts, saying he shouldn't do too much or he'd still feel unwell tomorrow. Bilbo tucked him in and also went to bed, exhausted by his fretting all day, but optimistic that his lad would be all right.

Frodo slept poorly, terrible memories of the Quest revisiting him. His mind returned him to the Barrow, his entire body feeling like ice from the Barrow-wight's touch, and Sam, Merry, and Pippin lying motionless beside him as though dead. He sat up to see the crawling, emaciated hand advancing toward them, the eerie greenish light all around growing stronger to reveal the faces of his friends as they had been when he'd sailed, frozen in their sorrowful expressions. Then Frodo realized with horror that they were dead, the long naked sword not only lying across their necks but *in* them. He felt he had been turned to stone, and the creeping hand scrabbled closer, then flew at him and clutched his throat, choking him until his vision narrowed, went gray, then black.

Frodo bolted upright in bed, gasping and sweating and shivering as he tried desperately to assure himself it was only a dream. His heart threatened to pound out of his chest, and he retched into his chamber pot, coughing and gagging. Frodo tried to reassure himself with the memory of their rescue by Tom Bombadil, but the dead faces of his companions haunted him.

The grey light of dawn was beginning to seep in through his small round window before he succumbed to sleep again. The dream images this time were not frightening, but they were unsettling: the sound of galloping hoofbeats, the shadows of dark Riders, the sense that an unseen presence was lurking behind him and waiting to strike, a horn blowing wildly in fear.

Frodo awoke feeling weary and anxious. He dressed and went up to the first deck for some miruvor, hoping the restorative would help him feel more recovered, for at the moment he still felt distinctly unwell. Not only was he weary from sleeping poorly, his arm was still sluggish and felt like ice. Having achieved his mug of miruvor, Frodo dropped onto one of the cushions against the hull. It was too early for Bilbo to be up, and neither Gandalf, Elrond, nor Galadriel were present, which left him blessedly alone. He didn't feel up to being in anyone's company. He thought he saw a few of the Elves looking at him and whispering, but as long as they didn't bother him, he didn't care.

As he slowly sipped his drink, he realized something else that had him feeling poorly: the rocking of the ship. Yesterday, somehow, he'd been blissfully unaware of the sickening back and forth; unfortunately the same could not be said about today. Frodo sighed, closing his eyes as he valiantly tried not to think about it.

"How are you feeling this morning?" Elrond's voice asked from next to him, nearly startling Frodo out of his skin and causing him to slosh some of the remaining miruvor on his trousers.

"If you're trying to frighten me senseless, you nearly succeeded," Frodo all but snarled, glaring at the elf.

"My apologies, Frodo. I thought you heard me approaching."

"You were mistaken," Frodo said, still glaring.

"Did you need some of this?" Elrond asked, holding out the flask of ginger tonic.

"I think you know the answer to that question," Frodo said, snatching it and taking a quick gulp. "You didn't give me any yesterday, after all."

"I did. It was in your tea."

"I see."

"How are you feeling, aside from the sea illness?"

"Not much better than yesterday," Frodo admitted. "I didn't sleep well."

Elrond took back his flask and tucked it somewhere in his robes, looking thoughtful. "I will wish to examine the wound again, when you are ready."

Frodo nodded. The persistence of his symptoms made him uneasy, for in the past they had always receded by this point, and Elrond seemed to recognize his unspoken concern. He drained his mug and rose unsteadily. Elrond rose also, and followed him down to his cabin. Elrond closed the cabin door for the sake of Frodo's privacy while Frodo perched on the edge of his bed.

Frodo allowed Elrond to unbutton his shirt -with his left hand and arm being recalcitrant, it was a slow and difficult task to button and unbutton anything- and closed his eyes when Elrond began his probing. He was abruptly brought back to his surroundings by an unexpectedly strong stab of pain and he almost cried out, but remembered Bilbo sleeping next door and managed to hold back his cry, tears coming to his eyes instead. "What did you do?" he demanded, looking down at his shoulder.

"I merely touched the scar. Does it pain you more than it did yesterday?"

"Your touch hurt much worse, yes," Frodo answered, blinking back the tears.

"Have you rubbed or bumped it since yesterday? It is slightly red and inflamed and feels warm to the touch."

"Nothing has happened to it that I know of," Frodo said, taken aback. "What could be causing this?"

"I do not know," Elrond admitted. "But the irritation may be the cause of your continued malaise. We will need to monitor the scar at least once daily for changes. For the moment, I regret I cannot offer any remedy beside warm compresses and willowbark. Had I anticipated such a malady, I would have brought a wider array of herbs."

"I understand. No one could have anticipated something like this."

"What would you like to do right now? If you wish to lie down, we can put some warm cloths on it again, or you can go back upstairs and have breakfast with Bilbo."

Frodo slouched as he considered, sighing heavily. Simply making a decision about what to do seemed too overwhelming, and he took that as an indication of what his decision should be. "I think I ought to lie down, try to sleep a little longer," he said at last.

Elrond nodded in satisfaction. "That is what I would advise," he said. It did not take him long to help Frodo change back into his nightshirt and get settled in bed. Frodo drowsily waited while Elrond vanished to fetch warm water and more cloths, then watched silently as the elf wetted and wrung the cloths. He stiffened when Elrond began laying the cloths on his shoulder; his scar was much more tender than he was accustomed to, and even that mere added weight was excruciating. It brought back painful memories of the interminable journey between his wounding and the arrival in Rivendell.

"When Bilbo rises, I shall tell him you slept poorly and I persuaded you to spend the morning resting," Elrond told him quietly as he settled the blankets over Frodo.

"Thank you," Frodo said, relieved. "I don't wish to cause him any more worry."

"He often finds something to fret about, whether he has cause or no," Elrond said fondly.

Frodo smiled. "Yes, he does."

"I will be nearby until you wake."


End file.
